Rock of My Faith

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There’s nothing wrong with this not being love.
I can still shove your name into my mouth & fear no longing,

though I may walk in the shadow of each little death
I give myself, blessedly. I’ve fared well enough on my own. 

No throne, no kitchen chair tied-to.
With my own hands have I built myself,

steeple and all. This is the rock of my faith: memory.
The heat of you above me, before me.

your blonde hairs’ glide across my ribcage.
Save your marriage all you want. 

If you’re looking for absolution, it’s yours.
If you’re wanting to hear confession, 

well, there’s nothing wrong with this not being love.
Whether I whisper your name or not, the hallelujahs still come.